These Scars and How We Got Them
by Sindrandi
Summary: Such a scattering of scars make a road-map, both to places much loved and memories best forgotten. A girl thrust into a world made of monsters. A ghoul who may be one himself. Both searching for things they never knew they wanted. And the only way they can find them is together.
1. A Beginning for Our End

Musical Inspiration provided by:

Chord Left - Agnes Obel

Solitude - Layla Frost

Every End Has A New Beginning - Joep Beving

* * *

She screams as knives of hot sunlight lance through delicate optical tissues with the brightness of the bombs falling all over again. Her brains are surely melting and will leak out of her ears at any moment. Like a slow leaf in autumn, she sinks to her knees, the shock and pain of it all heavy enough to crush.

Sneaking was all but impossible; the Vault hallways too cramped and narrow to maneuver and still remain undetected. She tried, fuck, did she try, but none of her good intentions were worth a thing. They kept coming, breaking against her like waves against the shore, and no amount of begging or threats made them back down.

Each successive one was easier than the last: Officer Kendall, Officer Park, Officer Wolfe, Officer Richards, Officer Mack, even Paul's dad, Officer Hannon; all bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat like she was slugging for a homerun.

She's disgusted with herself.

After she brained Officer Kendall, the first one, she had leaned against the wall and retched, losing the dinner Dad had made for her. Officer Kendall's wide, blank eyes stared, disapproving and full of accusation, the blood leaking from his ears a scarlet testament to her own ruthlessness.

Why would he leave her there? Couldn't Dad see how wrong the vault was?

Adaptable and intelligent, she is more than capable of critical thinking and higher tier problem solving, but goddamn if she isn't the stupidest creature on the face of the earth.

"I forgot the fucking SUN!" she wails, pitching forward from her knees into the dirt, curling up on herself. The clear riot visor of the security helmet is meant to stop thrown objects, not the harsh solar rays tearing at the thin skin of her eyelids.

Eyes squeezed tight, she blinks rapidly in the dark safety of the cave made of her arms and panics when there is only a searing white.

While the logic and reasoning centers of her brain know that this is a simple case of intense photosensitivity, the fight or flight mechanism has kicked into high gear: neurotransmitters latching onto receptors at a shocking rate of speed - shoving all reason out a figurative six-story window.

Anatomically correct visions of being eaten alive by wild animals as she sits in a helpless, unseeing heap sucker-punches her psyche and kicks it in the teeth for good measure. Brain overloaded and synapses misfiring, she passes out cold.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The dusty wasteland breeze whistles and teases along her ears and cheeks. Mercifully, it is sundown as her consciousness crawls up out of the sludge of its forced reset. Gingerly sitting up, she automatically checks for injuries. Just like dear old Dad, she muses, and while her eyes are gritty and her head still hurts, it isn't nearly as bad as that first awful meeting with the sun. Then she sees something that is a stern reminder that she has stumbled into a whole other world.

The sky appears to be on fire.

Clamoring up to the top of the rocky outcropping, she looks out to the west and what she sees takes her breath away. The sun's rays are no longer harsh, but soft and diffused as it sets. Pinks, purples, oranges, and reds paint the sky and she can only stare in awe. The sheer expanse of sky overhead is terrifying, but for now, the brilliant colors of sunset hold just enough novelty to push away the agoraphobic fear. Legs tucked up underneath and hands in her lap, she gazes out at the sunset and thinks about absolutely nothing but the colors until it finally sinks below the horizon.

Hot day turns to chilly night and she shivers. While staying here is tempting, it would likely spell death.

Pack shouldered and Pip-Boy map consulted, she carefully heads toward Megaton, baseball bat in hand and 10mm pistol strapped to one hip. The little handgun is not her favorite. It fits awkwardly in her hands and she isn't sure at all how to shoot it. At least the BB gun had been straightforward - eye lined right up along the sight, cheek resting on the smooth wood stock. Breathe in, find the target, breathe out, squeeze don't pull, be surprised by the shot. Dad had taught her everything, even how to take it apart and put it back together again. Guns, however, are not in her thoughts at the moment. Her surroundings command more attention.

The whole world is obviously ruined, not that she had known what it looked like before the bombs dropped, but she's pretty sure it isn't supposed to look like this. There's almost nothing left. Black spires of atomically petrified trees, burned out cars, broken highway; it looks like everything had been blown sky high and left to fall wherever gravity might deign to put it.

Heading down the hill, a town - or what is left of one anyway - looms out of the growing dark, complete with crumbling buildings, some with mailboxes out front. Unsure if the buildings are inhabited, she drops into a crouch. A soft chime from the Pip-Boy announces her arrival in 'Springvale,' but its Foe-Finder feature also shows a friendly green dot, indicating that she is not alone.

An eyeball-shaped robot floats serenely down what used to be a street. It is apparently a flying radio. Someone named 'John Henry Eden' insists that he is the president and tells her that the 'Enclave' would 'restore every school', 'reinstate every youth program', and offer 'financial assistance to those in need'.

She calls so much bullshit, a whole herd of cows couldn't make enough to keep up. There can't possibly be anyone in charge of this hellhole, and if there is, they're doing a pretty crap job.

Fearing retaliation if she swats it out of the sky with the baseball bat, she decides to let bygones be bygones and scram. Keeping off the street and combing the ruined buildings for anything useful proves surprisingly easy. The structures have walls like swiss cheese, and there are no doors to knock on.

The ruined homes provide a few goodies for those with sharp eyes and quick fingers. A few trade magazines in ruined mailboxes, random junk, and an intriguing safe that she jimmies open with a bobby pin, a little coaxing, and a far flung prayer. Lock picking isn't her forte, but surprisingly, Amata, of all people, had a knack for it that was almost preternatural, and had thankfully shared some knowledge.

The little safe holds a few boxes of food, a crappy-looking pistol, a type of ammunition that looks too big for the 10mm, and some chems. Dandy Boy Apples, (apples, while not in this strange, dried form, are her favorite) are reverently packed away, and three more green dots pop up on the Pip-Boy screen, moving steadily down the street.

If the dots threw her for a loop, the people and creature belonging to said dots toss her completely.

Out of the evening gloom walks a scary looking man in dark armor with a wicked looking rifle. The second man is wearing slacks, suit jacket, and tie, dressed like he's going to meet his swell girl for a picnic in the park, like in the entertainment tapes.

The giant cow moos out of one of its two heads.

"What. The. Actual. Fuck," she tries to say, but no sound is coming out.

"Hello, Miss!" the man in the suit calls out, waving in a decidedly friendly way, but he is also armed with a decidedly oily smile.

Gripping the bat a little tighter, her glance darts between the oil-slick grin and the guard's gun. The rifle is still stowed away behind his back, but that could change in less than a moment if he chose. Getting twitchy will be unwise, but just standing there like a dope may also be a bad idea.

"Hello," she croaks out.

"I am Doctor Hoff, physician and healer. This is my security consultant, Mr. Tango," the man in black snaps off a lazy salute that belies his watchfulness, "and this fine beast of burden is Atlas." The cow, using all four eyes, fixes her with a disinterested stare, chewing its cud (cuds?) with both mouths.

"Can I interest you in some of my merchandise, dear girl?" His smile is positively greasy now.

The act of buying things is a somewhat foreign concept. There were no stores in the Vault. Food came from the extruder, water from the purifier. Everything was provided for free, so there was nothing to buy in the first place. Trading is only slightly more familiar, but that was comic books for rubber band guns, snack cakes for bubblegum, and marbles for bobby pins.

What she really wants to talk about was how a cow can have two heads and still be alive, but decides it would be prudent to save that conversation for another time.

"Um, sure? What are you selling?"

"I am a purveyor of fine medicinals! I offer quality pick-you-ups, put-you-downs, and some that turn you all around!"

Chems.

Those little miracles of modern molecular science could get you hooked quick and didn't really do much for you, except Rad-Away and stimpaks. Ellen DeLoria was a shining example of substance abuse, something not to be emulated. Butch's mom had been so toasted, she pretty much just let the radroaches nibble on her.

"I would not be interested in your more, ah, recreational supplies, but I would like to see your medical selection, if you would be so kind." Manners may be of use here; he seems fairly intelligent and well spoken. He is a merchant, after all.

His smile grows bigger, and happily, a little kinder. "It is so nice to meet a polite individual here in this wild, untamed Wasteland! I understand your hesitation completely, Miss. Rest assured, I have a lovely stock of stimpaks, among other life-giving concoctions."

A good rummage through his inventory reveals five stimpaks and three Rad-Away bags. The unfamiliar bags are filled with a syrupy-looking liquid in a sickly amber color that makes her think of bile.

"I'll take these, please. What will the total be?" She confidently pulls out the stacks of green bills nicked from a dresser, like people did in the tapes when they went to a store. He dissolves into a gale of high-pitched giggles.

Someone has obviously been sampling the merchandise.

"Oh, my dear! Oh my dear girl!" he snorts as he manfully tries to get his giggles under control. "I'm not sure where you're from, but that money is only fit for starting fires out here! Do you have caps? Something to trade, perhaps?"

"Caps? Like this hat?" The baseball hat on her head is worn and the red fabric has faded a little, but judging by the state of the world, it's probably prime.

"Well, while I would be more than pleased to buy such a fine article of clothing, the caps I speak of are bottlecaps."

She can only stare in what she hopes is not, but probably is, an expression of complete bewilderment.

"From the tops of Nuka-Cola, the sweet and fizzy refreshment?" He cocks his head and looks at her strangely.

"Oh, of course." This world seems to hold an infinite amount of ridiculous. "Well, I don't seem to have any caps on me, but I would love to trade." Pulling all the random junk out of her pack, the odds and ends form a small mountain between them.

"That will do admirably, especially if all of your items are in as good condition as this lovely hat. While I myself specialize in pharmaceuticals, many of my colleagues, like the venerable Crazy Wolfgang, prefer a more, ah," he points to a coffee mug, "varied inventory. I would be unkind not to keep an eye out for certain treasures he may find appealing."

'Crazy Wolfgang,' now that's a name that sounds like it belongs in this godforsaken pile of dust.

After a few snickers from the guard at her motley inventory and Doc Hoff's exclamations of surprise at the sheer number of spare Vault security armor sets, she walks away with the stimpaks and Rad-Away, along with a little over 100 'caps'. Not completely sure where to store them, she stuffs them in a spare sock and ties the end to her belt. Its cheery jangle is oddly comforting.

The good doctor waves a friendly goodbye, and she waves back and shakes out her hair. She can't believe of all the junk she nicked from the Vault, she didn't remember a single hair tie. Jamming it all in her helmet, she sets off for Megaton, determined to get there before morning. She is not eager to see what her eyes will have to say about the sunrise.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Stockholm slowly thumbs off the safety, watching intently through the old four-power scope, muttering a curse as he notices yet another scratch in the lens.

This gun is irritating, a shitty .32 hunting rifle, but he supposes he's good enough to snipe with anything they give him. He just wishes they would have sprung for something with a little more stopping power. Or maybe something not held together with wire, duct tape, and a prayer.

That would be nice.

While she doesn't look like a raider, she also looks like no one he's ever seen before.

She's dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit with some sort of light armor over top. The ensemble manages to look both utilitarian and sexy; utilitarian due to the armor, and sexy with the way it's hugging all the curves of its distinctly female wearer.

Also, Stockholm hasn't come down from his perch in a while, so maybe anything containing purely X chromosomes and all its skin is starting to look sexy.

The strange round helmet is too big, wobbling all over her head like a nut in a too-loose shell, but it's stubbornly strapped under her chin. She's holding a baseball bat with a death grip in one hand, while the other rests lightly on a little handgun strapped to her left hip.

Stockholm isn't sure whether to shoot her or ask her out for a drink.

While she looks too small to be dangerous, he is concerned with her movements. She creeps along, staying in the deepest shadow the night will provide, but her furtive glances, darting here, there, and everywhere, speak of fear and caution rather than nefarious intentions. He doesn't understand why she would be so fearful here. Most people visibly relax the closer to the gate they get. He figures she must be lost.

He exhales and thumbs the safety back on.

"Hi there, chickadee!" he calls out as she slips around the stupid hunk-of-junk robot that insists on constantly walking into his shots. Someday, one of Stockholm's rounds would go wide, and nail Deputy Weld right in his bucket-of-bolts brain basket with a glorious explosion of motor oil and sparking electronics. Boss man Simms would be pissed, but Stockholm would just blame it on the crap rifle they gave him.

Her head snaps up to his perch and he loses his breath. The moonlight glints off her eyes through the visor and for a moment, they look like they're made of crystal. Not that he's ever seen a real crystal, but he's heard about them. Somehow, he finds his voice again. "Usually, when someone says hi to you, you say something back, like, 'Hello,' or 'Good evening', or 'Greetings and salutations, Mr. Stockholm, lovely weather we're having'."

She squints up at him, crinkling her brows together in a thinking frown, and the illusion is lost.

"Hi," she says over her shoulder, pushing the gate open and slinking away.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Pushing open the door of Moriarty's Saloon, she is greeted by the combined scents of sweat, piss, and desperation. The first thing she sees nearly makes her turn and run to the Vault and pound on the door to get back in.

There is a man-shaped creature behind the bar, calmly wiping glasses, like it's a normal, everyday thing to be missing half its skin. The nose and ears are gone and startlingly red muscle peeks out between the tattered skin like a clinical anatomy model. It looks at her expectantly with opaque, milky eyes.

"Welcome to Moriarty's."


	2. Of Tired and Broken Thingd

The metal door opens with a swirl of warm night air and the smell of dust; a little smoothskin walks in and takes off her odd helmet. A mop of dark curly hair practically explodes and tumbles everywhere as the helmet comes off. Her eyes sweep the room and land on him, immediately going round as saucers. She's brave though, he'll give her that. She schools her expression into something a little more presentable with all the effort of mastering a mad brahmin.

She doesn't appear disgusted, exactly, but emotions are flitting across her face as quick as humanly possible. He catches glimpses of fright, fascination, and then oddly, concern.

With a deep breath, she pulls herself together and hitches on the shoulder straps of her pack, like she's getting ready to go on a long journey.

Approaching a corpse would count as a long journey, he thinks.

That creepy Mr. Burke seems determined to get her attention, and is waving his arms like a lunatic. When that fails, he actually snaps his fingers and whistles at her, like a dog. She stops and turns slowly, fixing him with a glare that would have peeled paint. She stalks past him like he doesn't exist.

Gob is liking this smoothskin already.

Sidling up to the bar, she plops down on a barstool and gives Gob an honest to goodness grin. She opens her mouth to talk to him, but is interrupted.

"Hey, baby. You're cute, and I'm Jericho. Wanna screw?"

So much for subtlety. Gob stifles a laugh when the girl cheerfully tells him he can 'fuck right off and sideways,' like she's talking to him about the weather.

Jericho, too drunk to be mad, lets out a startled laugh and mutters something about 'fucking rat bastard kids these days.' She's lucky he's on the right side of smashed or he would have beat her into the ground.

She turns back to Gob with that thousand watt smile.

He can't remember the last time someone actually smiled at him besides Nova and Moira Brown. Neither of them really counted though. Nova has been strung out on Jet for three years and Moira is a cheese slice short of a sandwich.

They both smile all the time like a perfect pair of dipshits, and it doesn't mean a thing. This girl smiles a real smile, and while it makes him nervous, he can't help that stupid warm feeling from spreading in the center of his chest.

"So, I don't want to be rude," the girl says confidentially, swinging her too-short legs under the bar like a living metronome, "so don't answer this if you don't want to, but what happened to you? Is there anything I can do to help?"

He relaxes. She means him no harm, too ignorant to be an immediate threat. He thinks he can probably talk to her without getting hit. "You been living under a rock, smoothskin? I'm a ghoul."

She seems to take that and roll it around a little. "Hmm. Ghoul."

"What, you never seen a ghoul before?"

Gobtholomew has been stuck in this hellhole of a bar for fifteen years with nothing to break up the stifling boredom of his days except beatings, and the compulsive polishing of glasses. Needless to say, he notices _everything_.

He looks her up and down and the pieces start to fall into place. The unscarred skin and shiny hair have never seen lack of clean water, a healthy roundness in the small face that is ignorant of hunger, the clear whites of her eyes a stranger to disease, while the irises snap with an intelligence that comes from an actual education.

Vault kid.

It had been a long while since he'd seen one of those, but lately, they seemed to be escaping their little warrens with the frequency of rats fleeing a sinking ship. When one did manage to stumble into town, well, they just weren't quite _right_. It wasn't easily recognizable of course, but they were just different - flighty and nervous.

And crazy.

One he met talked to himself constantly and couldn't stand being outside during the day. Said the sky was too big and heavy and was sure it would crush him. He had wandered out into the Wastes one night and just never came back. What was his name? Something commonplace and forgettable. George? Glen? Gary maybe?

Her face is scrunched up, looking at him like she's trying to solve a difficult puzzle. "No. I assume it has something to do with radiation?"

"Got it in one. Took too much radiation, and here I am. Now what do you want to drink?"

"I'll have a Nuka-Cola, maybe?"

"Good choice." He looks over his shoulder and doesn't see Moriarty. "I like you, so I'll tell you this up front," he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear. "Don't drink anything in here that isn't already sealed."

"Why? Something bad in it?"

Gob nods seriously as he pops off the cap. "It sure as hell isn't good. You're lucky you got me instead of Moriarty. Real lucky."

"Thanks," she mumbles, sniffing the cola suspiciously.

"What, you've never had one?"

"No, Dad said it'll rot your teeth, but I've heard it's good. It is, right?"

"Try it and find out, Lucky. Don't forget the cap."

She grins at his nickname for her. "Lucky. I guess I kind of am. I'm alive, right?" She pockets the cap and takes a sip. Her eyes get round and a look of pleasant surprise passes across her features.

"It's...spicy?" She sticks her tongue out and tries to look at it with crossed eyes.

Gob actually laughs at this and it sounds so foreign and strange to his own ears he has an inexplicable urge to clap his hands over his mouth.

"Not spicy, smoothskin, that's just the carbonation."

"Well," she says, peering into the bottle and back to his face, "I think I like it."

Three Nuka-Colas and a two hours later, Lucky has been educated in most things Wastelandia and Megatonese. She tells him about the vault and her dad going missing.

He wants to tell her he saw him a day or two ago, but Gob is a fucking coward.

He hates himself for being such a spineless piece of shit. Fifteen years of constant abuse has beat him down so far, he's not sure he could ever get up again. Another fifteen, and he would probably go feral. Maybe it would be a blessing, to stop caring and just fade away. He simultaneously shivers and smiles at the thought of a freshly feral Gob chewing on Moriarty's arm.

Gob skips the part about her dad and tells her about Moriarty instead, about Nova, and how he ended up in the saloon.

"You really can't leave? What's keeping you from telling him…"

"What, to "fuck right off and sideways?" he interrupts with a snort, an impressive feat for someone missing the soft tissue of their nose. "You've got a mouth on you, Lucky."

She ducks her head and looks sheepish, of all things. "Kids are scared when you're smarter than them, and it makes them mean. You've got to be mean right back."

Gob sighs. If only he could be 'mean right back'. He's had detailed fantasies of killing Colin Moriarty every day for over a decade. "I'd give anything to leave, but he'd rather kill me than let me go. Besides, I'm a ghoul, not a human. No one's going to stop and help a walking corpse."

Her brows draw together as she frowns.

"That's stupid. Your DNA might have a few more loopty-loops now, but how are you not human in the ways that count? You're bipedal," she says, ticking her points off on slender fingers, "you walk, talk, reason, feel, and remember like a human." She waves her hands as she gets more excited. "Think of it this way, you thrive in a distinctly radioactive environment. If anything, it's "smoothskins" who are inferior, biologically speaking."

He whistles through his teeth, impressed. "You're smart. Doesn't change a thing though."

"Well, I'll think of something," she says with a calculating look on her face.

"You do that, but forgive me if I don't wait up for you."

"What about other ghouls? Are there many others like you?"

He explains all about Underworld, marks it on her little computer, and tells her about Carol.

"If you get out that way, tell her I say hi. I sure do miss her," he says, and thinking of Carol makes his heart twist into a knot that will never really untangle.

"Shouldn't wish for things you can't have, _boy-o_." Gob cringes as he hears the Irish brogue much too close behind him. Moriarty claps him on the shoulder, hard.

There will be a beating tonight, in the dark, when the customers have all gone home. Nova will be upstairs, hopefully sleeping, and Gob will keep quiet so as not to wake her. She doesn't get nearly enough sleep these days. He'll have to clean up the drops of his own blood from the floor before morning.

Somehow, though, having a normal conversation with a real person might be worth it.

"Now, little one, drink your drink and don't bother the help. You don't have to listen when the zombie yaps, you know," Moriarty says with a wink.

Her brows furrow at the word "zombie", but just as quickly the look is replaced by a sweet smile. Gob can see it is the type of smile that's soft on one side, but sharp on the other.

"Oh, I don't know, I find him to be fascinating."

"Well, it's best if you find your drink or Nova's tits more fascinating. Now, shut up, drink up, and get out," Moriarty growls, patience wearing thin.

"Oh, now, I didn't mean any harm, just interested in anyone new. Tell me about your bar and this Nova. She sounds so nice, I just may want to rent a room for the night."

Gob wants to laugh at both of them, her for trying to play Moriarty, and Moriarty thinking he could play her. It's like watching a game of cat and mouse; one with two cats and no mouse at all.

Moriarty stares at her a moment, but greed wins out.

"Of course, little one! You'd be hard pressed to find better company in all the Wastes. Now, it's almost closing time. Except Nova, she's always open."

Lucky giggles politely at his joke, but a bit of something hard flashes in her eyes.

"Before I do, I have a few questions about a man that might have come through, tall, dark hair and eyes, paler than me, has one of these." She turns her little computer over with a flick of her wrist and the dim bar lights glint off the screen. "Have you seen him?"

Moriarty smiles, an old wolf with worn down teeth. "You must be the little baby girl, all grown up! I've seen him, all right. He's already come and gone. Got what he came for and left just as fast."

"Wonderful!" She claps her hands the way a child might. "Can you tell me where he went?"

Moriarty does his best to look apologetic and fails miserably. "Ah, I could, yes, but nothing is free out here in the Wasteland, as you'll soon find. 100 caps should do the trick." He chuckles at her crestfallen face. "Fine, if you haven't got the funds, just run a little errand for me, and perhaps we can work out an arrangement. You know, for old time's sake."

Lucky shrugs noncommittally, but inclines her head like she's listening.

"A woman named Silver was in my employ. Traitorous harpy stole 300 caps worth of chems from me and ran. Find her, kill her, and bring back whatever caps that junkie bitch hasn't already pissed away."

Lucky smiles the smile, smooth as glass and just as sharp, just as likely to kiss you or kill you. Moriarty is a fool for not noticing it, but caps are clouding his eyes. "I'll see what I can do," she says. "Now, I believe it's past my bedtime."

"Nova! Get your whore ass down here, you've got a customer!" Moriarty yells up the stairs.

Nova sashays down and her bleary eyes go wide as she takes in the little Vault dweller.

Gob wishes Nova would look at him like that. He knows Nova is only nice to him because she's usually blitzed out of her mind, but he can't help soaking up her kind words like a thirsty earth and turning them into something they have no business being. She has never touched him, not once in the five years she had been here. Nova touches everyone else, her hand on an arm, the back of her knuckle down a cheek, her fingers playfully ruffling someone's hair, and Gob truly can't tell if it's because she actually wants to or because it's just a habit.

"Aren't you just pretty as a picture!" Nova says, running a finger down the back of Lucky's hand. "Give your caps to Colin and come to bed, sugar."

The Vaultie just wants her hair combed.

Nova wishes she had another dose of Jet, even half a dose. Time moves so fucking slow without it. Her hands shake and the nausea of withdrawal is tearing at her gut. She's wearing thin, and Moriarty's holding out on her to 'teach her a lesson.' She had asked to keep a few more of the caps she earned. He looked like he wanted to beat her, but no john wants a bruised up piece of ass, so he hit her where it hurt. Vicious bastard always knew where the soft spots were.

Nova runs the brahmin-bone comb through the shiny locks and relaxes a little with the steady, mind-numbing motion. Now she understands why Gob is always polishing the glasses. The Vaultie's hair is soft as the tight curls slip through her fingertips and smells like something sweet.

Nova's jealous, but not jealous enough to stop sending a little prayer to heaven that the Wasteland won't frizzle out the silky strands with its heat and wind like it has everyone else's.

Some good things on this earth should be able to stay good, right?

As his face smashes into the floor and he feels the gush of blood that comes when whatever is left of his nose is broken, just like it has a hundred times before, Gob thinks of how that thousand watt smile shined in his direction and decides he was right.

It was worth it.


End file.
